


As it Should be

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Porn, Exophilia, F/M, Heavy Angst, Human/Monster Romance, Naga, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:39:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23381050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: Your caught your boyfriend cheating on you with someone you considered a friend, so you're going to inflict the same pain on him.
Relationships: naga/human, naga/reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 260





	As it Should be

It’s just a glance, but you manage to catch your reflection in the mirror of someone’s car. You’re almost unrecognizable, mascara running down your face alongside the streams of tears, eyes red and puffy from sobbing uncontrollably. Trying to wipe it down with your sleeve only seems to make everything worse, so you gently dab the edges of your eyes, taking several deep breaths as the first step to stop crying like a babe.

In your pocket, your phone buzzes insistently, but you pointedly ignore it.

It takes you a moment of silent contemplation, but you find the street, remembering where Ihsan lives from a party you went to a couple of weeks ago. Anyone can get into the apartment, which is good, because if you had any more obstacles than your sense might have had a chance to kick back in and stop you before you got to the door. Your heart thuds roughly in your throat as you knock, as loud as you can muster, taking a hasty minute to wipe at your face again with your sleeves.

He opens the door just a moment later. God, he’s beautiful, but he knows it, and the constant fawning of other people does nothing to tamper down the gigantic hubris he’s been building since he was… a small child, probably. Long, luscious locks of dark hair that shimmers like an oil spill cascade past his shoulders, flickers of blues, purples, and burgundy appearing and vanishing in the strands as he moves. His face isn’t something to disregard, either, the sharp, pointed features against the deep blacks and navy of his skin somehow both natural and seemingly artificial, though, to your knowledge, he was born this beautiful.

You _literally_ tripped over yourself when you first saw him, months ago, carrying a red solo cup filled with some kind of college concoction that was sure to fuck you up. The liquid spilled, splashing over your clothes, sending an immediate chill through your skin as an ice cube somehow managed to catch itself in your cleavage. Profanity burst through your mouth, and he laughed, though not _at_ you, and he offered you one of his shirts to wear instead. To say that he put on the moves quickly would be an understatement, but you _couldn’t,_ you have a boyfriend.

Had. You _had_ a boyfriend.

Sucking in your breath, you give him a watery smile in what you _hope_ appears to be a sultry gaze from the outside. “Can I come in?”

He opens the door wider, his lips open in the slightest bit of shock. You step into the apartment, marveling at how absolutely spotless it is. Clearly a misconception, but you had thought that he might be a bit of a slob since the last time you were here was in the middle of a party that made the space seem like a warzone. The place is big, bigger than what you are used to, and someone once told you that his rich daddy pays for everything he could possibly need- the apartment, a personal trainer, a dietitian, some kind of maid service that filters through twice a week, the works.

“Are you alright?” He asks, clearly concerned as he shuts the door behind you.

“Yes.” Jealousy might have played into your immediate distaste for him, you won’t lie, but every other emotion you might be feeling at this moment is overshadowed by the pain boiling in your chest. Your phone buzzes again.

“Are you going to get that?” He asks, gesturing to your pocket.

“It can wait,” you respond, pressing the side button to decline the call.

“You seem… distressed.”

The concern only drills a hole deeper into your heart, and you step away from him before you begin crying again. “Do you have any wine in your kitchen? I could use a glass.”

After a moment hesitation, he lets the subject drop, slithering over to a pantry area. “What are you feeling tonight? White? Red?”

“Whatever.” You cross your arms over your chest and stare out the window while he opens a bottle. God, the lights of the city are so beautiful from up here, you could sit at the window and stare down onto the street below for hours. Hell, maybe he’ll let you once you get what you want from him.

He hands you a glass, and you take a few grateful sips, though he doesn’t touch his. Instead, he’s watching you, brow furrowed, though he _must_ know why you are here. Swallowing what other discrepancies you might have, you place the wine on a nearby counter, and take a step closer to him, giving him a calm, steady stare. You have a sudden feeling of serenity as you lean over, letting your eyes close as he moves to close the gap.

He doesn’t ask about your boyfriend- well, ex-boyfriend, but there is no way for _him_ to know that yet, and you are grateful for the lack of questions. The wound is still raw and bleeding, the idea of having to _explain_ anything builds an uncomfortable pressure in your chest, and again, tears threaten to fill up your eyes once more. Instead of dwelling on it further, though, you throw yourself into the kiss and try not to think about anything other than the way his mouth feels against yours.

A naga’s lips kiss different from a human’s, or perhaps it’s just because Ihsan is remarkably skilled in the trade... so much so that you’ve forgotten what to do. His hand touches your hip so very lightly, as though he isn’t sure if that’s quite what you want. Taking a moment to gasp for breath, you stubbornly move his hand further down so that it’s touching your ass, looking back at him in a smoldering kind of rebellion. He’s surprised, you can tell by the way his rhythm is off when you kiss him again, but he seems to find your attitude remarkable in the way he pulls your body closer to his.

“Bedroom,” he gasps, “or couch?”

You would be okay with being fucked right up on the counter, but the options are nice. Without giving yourself a moment to even mull it over, you rasp, “bedroom,” and he has you ferried up the minimalist stairs within seconds.

His room has been professionally decorated, though you _refuse_ to believe that he has such a critical eye for interior design. There’s a sort of modernist square theme going on, his bed low to the ground, bed tables and shelves arranged in boxy patterns, everything either light gray or black. The comforter on the mattress is fluffy and cool as your back hits it, the plushness sinking with added weight as he slithers on top of you.

“How do you want it?” He breathes in your ear, shivers running down your spine.

You don’t _know,_ you don’t know how you want it, you haven’t had such an attentive partner for so long. Swallowing thickly, you manage to rasp, “I want to walk with a limp in the morning.”

His teeth graze the side of your neck. “I think I can manage that.”

“Good,” you respond, as steadily as you can manage at the moment.

Ihsan laughs, thoroughly amused by your callousness, but quickly stops in favor of kissing the side of your neck. His mouth is hot against your skin as he offers up some playful nips. You think you’re going to die, but try to stay strong because you _need_ to, you _need_ to remember this as vividly as you feel it. He kisses down from your chin to your collarbone, sucking a hickey right above your breast, fingers messing with your pants with expert efficiency.

He helps you out of your clothing, kneeling between your legs as he teases your underwear off. The air is cold, you feel yourself quivering as Ihsan places a kiss on your inner thigh. Sparks light and fizzle through your nerves as you feel his breath over your sensitive flesh, you have to suck in your breath to keep from crying out. You can’t give him the satisfaction of moaning so early into the game, though, but he somehow picks up on your sensitivity.

“You haven’t had someone do this in a while?” He sounds… sympathetic, soft.

Your phone buzzes from the pile of clothes to the side. Both of you ignore it.

His finger traces the outline of your weeping slit, as though quickly formulating the best way to please you, he’s watching you for any sort of reaction. Slowly, his thumb finds your clit, brushing over the trembling bud in experimental tenderness. Your back arches and you let out a sigh of _relief,_ something that is quickly replaced with a whimpering gasp as he applies a bit more pressure.

Then he kisses you, right where his fingers had been, his mouth so hot and _needy_ for your taste, like he _wants_ you, like he’s _always_ wanted you. His tongue slips up the length of your slit, taking a moment to focus on the wetness that slowly flowing out of your core from arousal. He seems to enjoy the way you taste, his body almost shaking with need as he delves inside you, so very _careful_ not to let a drop go to waste.

He’s so… relentless. If something doesn’t make your body twitch with pleasure, he disregards it and moves on, switching up the way his tongue moves, grazing his teeth across your puckered skin. It’s not lost on you that he does so in a so very efficient manner, as though running through a checklist in his head. His experience with such matters is most certainly _not_ lacking, but the robotic kind of way he goes about it is almost enough to nearly put you off. The pleasure it brings, however, well makes up for any hesitation you have.

Your muscles tremble as pressure builds up inside your womb, a tight, boiling mess threatening to spill over, though you try your best to tamper it down. Ihsan’s tongue has other ideas because you can’t just _ignore_ what he’s giving you, the way it moves against your clit, or how he brings his fingers up to thrust in and out of your trembling cunt. Tears return to your eyes once more, but they don’t stem from the trench of pain that you have been drowning in.

“I’m going to cum,” you warn, almost _sobbing,_ hands clinging to the black, silky sheets of his bed.

To that, he only works _harder_ to tip you over the edge, tongue, lips, fingers all on overdrive, pain intermingling with pleasure, your body melting with tender pleasure. Everything is too _much,_ too bright, too fast, you think you might be on the brink of some sort of spiritual awakening that will burn through your physical form like a wildfire. The coil in your core leaps free, and you _cry out,_ voice shattering through whatever quiet, lewd sounds he had been making.

 _And he doesn’t stop._ He keeps licking you, softly, _roughly_ taking your clit between his teeth and _sucking_ as he holds your legs and waist steady in his arms. When your orgasm fades into soft, muted aftershocks, he finally stops, wiping his mouth with a smug, self-assured look on his face. There’s a hardness pressing up against your stomach as he slithers up over your body, pressing soft, lusty kisses on your feverish skin, still slightly vibrating from pleasure.

“I remember you saying that you don’t want to walk in the morning,” he says, lazily taking one of your nipples into his mouth.

You gasp sharply, trying to focus long enough to say, “I stand by that statement.”

“Rough, then,” his fingers gently massage your clit, riling your core back up, “you want it _dirty.”_

“I’m not here for your talk,” you snap, patience already razor-thin, “I’ve heard you brag _plenty._ I’m here to see if you can actually back it up.”

The challenge sparks something in his eyes, a bait that he takes _fiercely,_ hook, line, and sinker. Double the package means double the condoms, but he somehow tears through the metallic wrappings and places the rubbers over all necessary parts like a goddamn _natural,_ you’ve never seen such a smooth transition. His mouth presses against your neck, teeth and tongue teasing at your skin as he slowly works the head of his cocks across your entrance.

On a whim, you twist, wrapping your legs around his waist and pushing up from your elbows, effectively switching positions. To his credit, Ihsan seems _pleased_ with this development. Your knees are pressed up against the mattress, and he’s lying flat on his back between them, looking over you with a gaze that’s teetering on the edge of absolute _worship._ Carefully, your hand trails down to _both_ his erections, one at a time, trying to figure out which one you’re going to ride. People tend to just _assume_ that a naga’s two dicks are exactly the same, but you have the experience to understand that there’s some nuance to it.

One of them, you can tell, is thicker, the head already leaking out precum, hard as a goddamn rock. The other is just as impressive, though in a different way, longer, the curve a tad more pronounced, and after a moment of gently pumping it, you begin to tease yourself. Ihsan tries to shift, perhaps to meet you halfway in a kiss, but you push him back down on a whim. Only then, after the show of forcefulness, does he look at you _without_ all that pity. A good thing, too, because you were about to go insane from it.

Slowly, but surely, you sheath one of his cocks in you, and _fuck,_ it feels so good, like a piece of a puzzle finally in its place. You let out a soft breath of satisfaction once you fully take him; the lube on the condoms help quicken the process. His hips meet yours, and Ihsan _hisses_ with satisfaction, his head rolling back and his spine arching, pushing up further into you. It feels so good that you have to take a moment to savor it, relaxing all other tension in your muscles.

Then you begin grinding, slowly, just for the sake of being a tease. His other cock presses up between you and him, and you try to offer it some friction in a special kind of torture. Steadily, you rock forward, then backward, catching the second erection against your stomach. Haphazardly, Ihsan reaches up, cupping your breasts, but you’re quick to knock his hands away. The touching seems unnecessarily… intimate, and even though he had his face buried between your legs not so long ago, groping is a step too far for you right now.

Instead of becoming sullen at the rejection, he seems _impressed_ by your resolution, and respects it. He doesn’t try grasping at any other parts of your body, taking the dark sheets of the mattress in his hands, knuckles quickly paling with the strain of his grip. The power has flipped, and he seems just fine with that. You have to admit- internally, you’d never say any of this out loud, you _like_ the view of looking down at him, his dark face flushed in a deeper, more saturated tone, his eyes flickering as he tries to focus on something besides your ruthless onslaught on both his cocks.

“You look _murderous,”_ he says between gasps, “would you like to hurt me?”

You _would,_ though you don’t know exactly how to go about it. Spank him? Not in this position. Slap him? Picturing your ex-boyfriend in his place, you feel the urge to. You can see that he knows precisely what you’re thinking of by the masochistic smile that overtakes his features as he thrusts upwards into you.

“You can do it,” he offers, so very sweetly. “I’ll like it, you know… if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Trembling from desire, you manage to shake your head slightly in refusal. You’re afraid that going _that far_ is going to be like some sort of hard drug, something that you’d be quick to try again. The idea of having to return to _him_ to satisfy a craving is… it’s _terrifying._ You don’t know if he would accept you back with arms just as open as tonight, but that’s the _thing,_ you want this little escapade to be an _only tonight_ situation. No returns. No feelings. Nothing but angry, carnal lust to punish someone who isn’t even present.

“I’m- I’m good,” you blatantly lie, and judging by the expression on his face, you know he doesn’t believe you.

“Maybe later, then.” Ihsan doesn’t press any further than that, thankfully, and his fingers trace the air, barely inches away from your stomach. “May I touch you now?”

“Yes,” you say because you want out of your mind again, and his skilled fingers will aid in that.

Instead of merely fondling your nipples, like you thought he might, he sits up, your legs still straddled around his hips, keeping the friction going. His arms wrap around your waist, tightly, and he presses his face in your neck, showering you with gentle kisses until you think you’re going to _die._ His lips are soft, despite the rough thoroughness that you’re fucking him with, as though he’s trying to tell you that wanting to feel _loved_ is _okay,_ that the tenderness you need is entirely _fine._

The sounds of sex- skin smacking against skin, tongues and mouths playing with each other- begin to speed up as you feel yourself coming closer and closer to the edge. His second cock presses up and grinds against both your stomachs, you can feel it quivering near your chest. He whispers something _filthy_ in your ear, breath hot and voice needy, and you feel yourself get closer, closer, _closer-_

Your back arches. Your tear ducts activate. Then you _cum,_ like a goddamn train hit you, the insides of your body crashing and pulling you into a blissfully familiar frenzy. He brings you over the brink like a fucking pro, gently coaching you with his shaking, accepting body, mouth on yours, softly whispering encouragement. _You’re so beautiful, body wrapped around my cock, so perfect, so incredible, cum, baby, cum-_

It’s been a while since you’ve cried during sex, but your emotions tangles so profoundly with your hormones, dragging you through an onslaught of remorse, sadness, and _shame,_ seemingly all at once, and it’s _too fucking much._ Wetness trails down the sides of your face as sharp, heated ripples rock your body, though you know it has nothing to do with your partner in question. Or maybe it’s just one smaller part of a grander scheme. The straw that breaks the camel’s back, so to speak.

Ihsan kisses you, then, right on the mouth. You feel…. _whole, complete,_ shuddering and pulsing against him. He comes, soon after you, riding out your aftershocks, pressing his mouth up in the crook of your neck as he spasms. There’s a delay between his second cock, but you can feel it twitch and follow suite, another orgasm overtaking his body. He _holds_ you, so tightly, and the both of you rock as he slowly rides you out. The closeness makes you feel _safe_ somehow, like this is more than _only_ a random hookup, though the less emotional side of your brain is well aware that he’ll drop you just as quickly as all his previous conquests the moment a better challenge approaches.

It’s over. You peel yourself away from him, gasping out in soft, breathy huffs. Above all else, Ihsan _is_ very capable in bed, all other flaws aside. As you twist around, your feet already on the ground, he places a sweet kiss on the back of your shoulder. You know that he’s trying to offer you some leisure cuddles, but you don’t think you can handle that level of…. _closeness_ at the moment. You need to _go,_ rinse your skin of this sin, sleep in your own bed, maybe even do some homework. Like this is a typical day.

“I assume that you don’t want your boyfriend to know about this.”

Ah, there it is. The self-assuredness is what gets _under your skin,_ the fucking _pride_ he doesn’t even attempt to hide at what he believes to be his most ultimate conquest.

“Tell him or don’t, I couldn’t care less.” You weren’t planning to elaborate further than that, but suddenly you are filled with the overwhelming need to knock that smirk clean off his face.

“Trouble in paradise?”

Even though it _hurts_ to say it, you _have to,_ if only to knock him down a peg. You swallow thickly, and, careful to keep your voice from wobbling, you state, “we broke up.”

Confusion overtakes his features, and then… just a brief spark of indignation, though it disappears quickly. For whatever sick reason, Ihsan has a habit of sleeping with people who are in _exclusive_ relationships- he gets a kick out of it, you suppose, taking things that aren’t supposed to be his. “When? When did this happen?”

You’re already putting your clothes back on. “Recently.”

He’s trying to keep his voice sympathetic and understanding, but there’s an underlying frustration laced in his words. “That’s… wow, I didn’t think-”

“I’ll show myself out,” you interrupt coolly.

“You… do you want to talk about it?” He’s _trying,_ and you can’t even imagine _why._ Could it be that he’s upset that he didn’t get what he wanted? If you were to immediately return to your ex-boyfriend, would he still be able to pat himself on the back for this little discrepancy?

“Not with you, no offense.” A little cold, maybe, but you remind yourself that it’s precisely what he deserves. After all, he’s only wanted you as another notch in his homewrecker belt, so any kind of understanding he might try to show you will be horrifically false at best, and unbearably condescending at worst. This whole song and dance was nothing more than an exchange of power.

You needed to _hurt_ your ex-boyfriend the same way he hurt you.

Ihsan wanted to knock you off your monogamous pedestal.

It’s a one night stand made in heaven, you think. Your clothes are easy enough to put on, and one peek at your phone tells you that the boy in question has been insistently calling and texting you in the desperate hopes of a response. The variety of tactics he uses are colorful and vast enough to give you whiplash, statements such as _I’m sorry, please come back,_ to _can I come over? I miss you,_ to _this is your fault too, you soulless bitch,_ cycling over and over, filling your notifications and overshadowing all else.

“Do you at least want to shower?” It’s one last offer, one last bit of effort to have you stay.

You’re _tempted,_ and that’s what annoys you most. You’re tempted to go back into that bed and let time slip through your fingers like sand against broken glass, let him please you as though a sinful worshipper on the altar of his goddess. But that’s the thing about him, the lies of adoration that falls from his lips are so very _convincing_ that you’re afraid you’ll start believing them if you don’t use him in moderation.

So you put on your jacket with a final _snap_ of the fabric. “I’ll shower at my place.”

There’s a pause, then, a final hesitant, “see you in class tomorrow?”

That makes you pause for a moment, actually taking the time to mull over the question. Perhaps this _wasn’t_ such a good idea, especially since you have to face both him, _and_ your ex-boyfriend in your various university activities, but you’re long past the stage of internal debate. Oh well.

“I don’t know.”

You leave.

He doesn’t try to follow.

As it should be.


End file.
